Welcome To Rosie Hopkins' Sweetshop Of Dreams (15 page)

She washed the dusty old shelves with lemon cleanser till they smelled and looked fresh; blew the dust off the top of the huge red-velvet boxes of vintage chocolates and decided that although their contents were past saving, she would clean up the boxes and keep them for display purposes; their classic styles were hard to find these days. Likewise the tins of travel sweets with images of exotic places printed on the lids, of the Côte d’Azur and great train journeys through the Alps. With a little bit of spit and polish they would make a lovely display, and in case someone actually did want some travel sweets, although Rosie tended to think that the idea of offering sweets
to someone with motion sickness had rather gone away, given the amount of vomit doing so tended to produce, she would order some in and stock them in the storeroom.

After all, she was meant to be selling this place as a going concern. But, actually, the previous night a thought had struck her. Rather than get rid of everything and sell on a soulless shell, what if – what if – she returned Hopkins’ Sweets and Confectionery to its glory days
just as it was
; almost like a museum, with the origin al fixtures and fittings? After all, they were all still here.

Rosie had been so excited by this idea she’d called Gerard from the top of the house (if you leaned out of the window you could just about get a signal). When he said he was at his mum’s watching
Midsomer Murders
and could they talk tomorrow, Rosie called Angie, who said do what she liked as long as she sorted it all out. This left Rosie feeling rather alone with her plan. But she still thought it was a good one.

Before she got started on the windows, she took a packet of chocolate caramels and a glass of water, wondering how her aunt would feel about their installing a coffee machine somewhere. The village, in Rosie’s opinion, could be improved twenty times by the simple installation of a Starbucks. She sat down on the large grey stone step outside the shop, to polish up the original brass scales and watch the world go by. A couple of smart-looking ladies clopped by on horses with shopping bags in their hands. Rosie wondered what it would be like to go shopping on a horse. Probably less awful than having to go and get it on a bike, she reflected gloomily, watching the horses clip-clop down the road. One of them stopped to have an enormous poo. The ladies ignored it and continued chatting. There was no doubt about it, the countryside certainly
was different, Rosie reflected. She watched them down the quiet cobbled road as they continued on their way, then picked up her scrubbing brush again.

‘What’s this?’

The voice was snappy, with a heavy local accent. It did not sound happy. Rosie looked up, squinting in the sunlight. It was hard to make out the silhouette of the man standing over her, but from what she could see he was bald and exceptionally thin.

‘Hello,’ she said, scrambling up. ‘I’m Lilian Hopkins’ niece. I’m here to help her out with the shop.’

The man took a step back. He wore little round glasses and had peculiarly red lips, which he licked, quickly and nervously, displaying a sharp little tongue and extremely white teeth that glinted obtrusively. Rosie wondered if they were false. He wasn’t as tall as Rosie had thought from the step; when he wasn’t looming over her, they were about the same height.

‘What do you mean, help her out with it? You mean you’re going to reopen it?’

‘I haven’t decided,’ said Rosie, staring at him. What was it with his tone? This wasn’t any of his business. She thought people were supposed to be nice and friendly in the countryside and that it was London that was cold and unwelcoming. Well, not so far. ‘We’ll see.’

‘Well, I don’t like that,’ said the man. ‘Best thing that happened to this town, that place closing down.’

What kind of weirdo is happy when a sweetshop closes down? wondered Rosie.

‘Roy Blaine,’ said the man. He didn’t extend his hand for a shake, just waved it in her general direction. ‘Town dentist.’

‘Oh,’ said Rosie, understanding. ‘Ah. Hah. Well.’

The man peered in the windows, unsmiling.

‘Actually, I would have thought a sweetshop would be good for business.’ Rosie risked a joke, but the man didn’t smile.

‘It’s a bloody disgrace,’ he said.

‘Uhm, it’s only sweets,’ said Rosie. ‘I think you’ll find the Spar sells the same kind of stuff. Except they sell lots of fizzy drinks too. Which are
far
worse.’

Roy Blaine looked at her with the expression of a man who understood far more of the sufferings of the world than she ever would.

‘It’s a bad business,’ he said. ‘A damn bad business.’

‘We’ll promote good dental hygiene,’ promised Rosie suddenly. ‘We’ll put signs up reminding children to brush their teeth after eating a sweetie. And we sell small portions. And we’ll sell chewing gum!’ Then she suddenly remembered that one of the chapters in her aunt’s book was entitled ‘Why Chewing Gum is Death’. ‘Well, maybe not chewing gum. But we’ll be responsible!’

She realised as she said this that she wasn’t actually meant to be opening the shop up again the way she wanted it; just readying it to be sold.

Roy Blaine sniffed. ‘Nobody cares,’ he said. ‘Nobody cares about the infants with rotting mouths howling and dying in agony. From
sweets
.’ He hissed the last word, as if it pained him even to say it.

Rosie shot him a look. ‘Would you like me to fetch my aunt?’

Roy Blaine backed off.

‘No. Oh no, no, don’t do that. No.’ And he walked off down the road, muttering.

Lilian had painfully come to the door to see what the commotion was.

‘Was it that shyster Roy Blaine? That scrubber. Worst dentist this side of the Pennines. Not that I would know,’ she added proudly. ‘I never go.’

‘You never …
Lilian!
’ said Rosie in despair. ‘Anyway, I told him we’d promote good oral hygiene. And maybe sell chewing gum.’

‘
Never
,’ said Lilian, turning on her heel and slamming the door. Rosie sat down again.

‘Get back to bed,’ she called out feebly, but without much hope.

Rosie returned to her scrubbing rather crossly after that. She wasn’t here to make enemies, and really, how passionately could one fight against a sweetshop? They weren’t pretending to be healthy. It was a place for treats, for somewhere to come excitedly clutching your pocket money, to look forward to. They didn’t pretend to be selling orange juice that turned out to be full of preservatives and sugar, or making healthy ready meals that were stuffed with saccharine and salt. They sold honest-to-goodness, upfront sweets, wrapped in pink and green paper bags …

Rosie realised suddenly that she’d drifted away, and that she had taken on the shop’s identity as her own. She didn’t even know what type of bags they used. She used to get pink and green bags in Mrs McCreadie’s shop, on the corner of Blackthorne Road. She wondered where you bought them wholesale. Then she told herself off. She was just here to help
out for a little bit. Set her great-aunt up. Obviously Lilian would never again be up for a whole day serving behind the counter, but clearly all her marbles were there; if the shop could pay its way and make a little extra, that could mean a bit of care for her aunt and someone to run the business, then everyone would be happy.

‘Penny for ’em,’ came a gruff voice. She looked up, squinting in the sun, and was greeted by a friendly smile, showing off strong white teeth.

‘You Lilian’s girl?’ he said, his country accent made thicker by a deep voice.

Rosie scrambled up, suddenly wishing she wasn’t wearing crappy old trousers and a fleece, of all things. Maybe she could take off the fleece. Then she remembered that underneath it she’d pulled on her faded Race for Life T-shirt which had breast cancer written all over it. Maybe not.

‘I’m Jake,’ he said, holding out a strong, calloused hand. His hair was the colour of straw, some bits lightened by the sun; his face a walnut brown, the kind of brown that came from working outside all day, not lying by a swimming pool wearing flipflops. Round his eyes were creases, but his eyes shone out of them, a very bright blue. ‘Something about fixing a bike?’

By the shed, Rosie watched him work. He had the bike upside down and was gripping the front wheel between his legs as he did something to the gears. She wondered if she could pop off and put some lipstick on.

‘Want a cup of tea?’ she asked.

‘No, you’re all right, duck,’ said Jake.

Rosie didn’t even notice her arriving, but suddenly Lilian was at her elbow.

‘Enjoying the view?’ said Lilian, chuckling to herself.

‘Did you do this on purpose?’ said Rosie.

‘Yes,’ said Lilian. ‘But I thought you’d have washed your hair.’

‘I know,’ groaned Rosie, as Jake flipped over the heavy bike as if it were nothing, pausing only to push a muscled arm through his thick straw hair. ‘Oh well, I’m sure he’s horrible.’

‘Jake’s a pussy cat,’ said Lilian firmly. ‘He does all the … I mean he
very occasionally
helps me out with the heavy lifting.’

‘All right, Miss Hopkins?’ said Jake, glancing up. ‘Don’t you ever oil this thing? It’s as stiff as a badger’s gate.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Rosie. Lilian told her to be quiet.

‘Thanks so much for fitting us in,’ said Lilian in a nice voice Rosie hadn’t encountered before. ‘We’ll sort you out with some peppermint ice. I know you’re very busy.’

Jake rolled his eyes. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘Bad as ever?’ Lilian asked.

‘She’s a … she’s a …’

Jake looked like he was about to say something harsh. Then, as if realising he was in the presence of two ladies, he checked himself.

‘OK. Here you go. Good as new.’ He righted the bike and held it up by the saddle.

1942

The village hall was wreathed in smoke under the lights, and perfume, mixed with a hint of illicit alcohol and sweat, and absolutely packed with people, young boys and giggling young girls. These were the boys down to work the harvest, along with the land girls, whom the local girls roundly shunned, seeing them, with some accuracy, as competition for the few remaining menfolk. Lilian had tried to chat to the land girls in the shop; she found them fascinating, with their confident ways and different accents, but they kept themselves to themselves too. Soldiers home on leave had come from all the towns around. There was an overheated atmosphere engendered by the warm night and the transient population; Lilian felt not just the excitement of looking for someone she desperately wanted to see, but also the sense she rarely had of being young and free, not tied down – although, of course, she was, in so many ways. For the first time in her life, it felt, she was walking into this hall without knowing every single person in there. With all the seventeen-year-old confidence she could muster, she thought that this just might be the most important night of her life
.

Margaret was in flirt overload, her eye wandering furiously, as they parked up their bikes and sidled in. The noise level was overwhelming. On the raised platform at the end the band were perspiring in their cheap shirts to keep up with the dancers, who seemed hell bent on squeezing as much fun out of the night as they could; as if they couldn’t predict when the next entertainment would be
.